


Words They Said

by BizarreAmy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Dialogue Heavy, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BizarreAmy/pseuds/BizarreAmy
Summary: Collection of short-fics I wrote for Tumblr prompts. Mostly specific scenarios I received for conversation between the characters.
Relationships: Amrod & Fëanor, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Curufin | Curufinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Eärendil & Elwing (Tolkien), Finrod Felagund | Findaráto & Galadriel | Artanis, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Galadriel | Artanis & Melian, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë & Vairë the Weaver
Comments: 37
Kudos: 69





	1. Of Weavers (Miriel & Vaire)

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read. Not a native speaker. Mistakes are mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miriel and Vaire after the former's return to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt:  
Miriel and Vaire the Weaver. Vaire comforting Miriel who is helping her weave the stories of middle-earth and therefore knows in intimate detail the fates that befall her son/grandsons/great-grandson, but like. comforts her in a very valar-like way, so probably quite mysterious and aloof?

“Sometimes I wonder if I am being punished,” Míriel mused aloud as she sat gazing at the Encircling Sea outside Vairë’s personal palace. “For not returning to my family who needed me.”

“Why would you think that?” Vairë asked curiously from beside the Noldo.

“What is this if not punishment?” came the wry answer. “To watch as your husband’s Doom takes my son and all his descendants after him in tragedies unspeakable. And to be bound here to record it all.”

“You chose to come here, Míriel.”

“Yes, but I did not choose this particular task,” she argued back. “Why did you assign me the House of Finwë?”

Vairë sighed, "Because none other can do that family justice. Some of their deeds may never be seen in a neutral light if they weren’t written with a sympathetic hand. We weavers are not here to pass judgement, but to record all that occurs in Eä.“

"But why would my hus-” Míriel faltered, recalling quarrels of times past, "Why would Finwë’s House alone be accorded a sympathetic hand? You do not give this privilege to any other.“

"No, I do not. Yet no other house is like Finwë’s. The Finwëan mark on Arda may be steeped in blood and tears, but it is a deep mark that will linger through the Ages to come. We cannot merely show the bloody side, because the tears shed by them are no less significant.”

But Míriel was troubled still, "I do not think I can endure it all without yearning for Lord Námo’s Halls again.“

"His halls are always open to you,” Vairë answered. “My maia visit there to place the tapestries, perhaps you can do that if you wish.”

“Er… I meant that I might wish to be dead again,” Míriel admitted in a small voice.

“Dead!?” cried a bemused Vairë. “My dear, do you need to rest in Estë’s gardens? I may be able to spare you for some days. No indeed, take as much time as you wish.”

“You misunderstand me Lady Vairë. My hröa is hale, it is my fëa which may not withstand the sufferings of my family. It is escape that I will look for in the Halls. A serene nothing.”

Vairë frowned, "Is your fëa not restored after your time in the Halls? Surely it is stronger now.“

"Perhaps,” Míriel whispered with a sad smile. “But no mother can watch her son and grandsons be tormented so and not break.”

“Lady Nienna does it.”

“She does it while weeping endlessly. Yet I may not have that luxury,” Míriel countered. “For though Lord Námo said ‘tears unnumbered’, our eyes are prone to turn dry and our hearts to stone. There is only so much we can take.”

Vairë did not understand elves but she tried to reassure the one before her, "Their suffering shall end someday and death shall take them. And in Námo’s Halls they will find rest, as you yearned to.“

Míriel shook her head, "Not rest but an end. Is not Fëanáro trapped in there for eternity? How is that rest when no return to life is possible?”

“Ah. My husband is hasty in his anger, but he is not without mercy.”

“True enough for my Fëanáro too,” Míriel smiled, recalling how he had been in life. In his short life. A short life which awaited his sons too. “I wish there was happiness to be found in Arda for them all.”

“There is,” Vairë soothed. “For no grief can be felt without feeling joy first. Your heirs will live their lives to the fullest and no lesser.”

“Yet one’s fullest is another’s lesser.”

That did not sound right to the Valië, "And to weave a tapestry worthy of praise, do you make all threads the same length and colour?“

"Nay,” answered Míriel, realising where her lady was going with it.

“There is beauty in grief too,” stated Vairë.

“But no consolation,” was Míriel’s answer, as she turned away from the clashing waves and went back to weave the horror that was Arda.


	2. Of Mother and Son (Feanor & Miriel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor and Miriel in Mandos.

“Ammë.”

“So you remember me,” Míriel remarked from the doorway to where Fëanor's spirit rested in the Halls.

Fëanor turned, the warmth of his fire moving closer to Míriel. “How can I ever forget the greatest injustice done against me?”

Míriel lowered her eyes, “I am sorry, onya. There are no words that can convey the depth of my regret.”

“Is that so, Ammë?” Fëanor asked bitterly. “What are you apologising for? Leaving me or for what came after?”

“All of it,” Míriel stated.

Fëanor shook his head, “It seemed like you left and the world turned against me. From my own Atar to the ones we all called guardians. I became a problem to them. An issue to be solved. Like I was something to be managed and not a person - a child! - to be loved and valued like everyone else.”

“That is not true,” Míriel said, stepping forward towards her son. “Your Atar loves you, Fëanáro.”

“Does he?” Fëanor argued. “Or is that his guilt that manifests as a need to prove his love for me?" 

"Do not mistake his expression of love as a show of pity,” Míriel answered sagely. “He has always loved you. And the Valar-”

“The Valar despise me,” he interrupted. “They would treat me worse than Moringotto. Even he was given a second chance yet here I am, bound to these Halls until the world is remade. I am to pay for the mistakes they made. For their mistaken mercy to their brother, for the greed they all had for my Silmarils, for their refusal to aid us!” He laughed then, as one whose every thread of sanity had snapped and what was left behind was an unhinged shell of an elf. “Ah, but that is what my life has always been about, is it not? You left and I grew up motherless. Atar remarried and I was deemed marred. He fathered other children and my rights were threatened. My own wife stayed back and my sons and I weathered through our fates on our own. The Falmari broke long-held bonds of friendship and I was doomed as a kinslayer. My so-called half brother was untrustworthy and I paid for it with my life. They act and I am punished. Always! Always.”

Míriel blinked to clear the whisper of tears that her bodyless spirit conjured. Fëanor was suffering still and she could do nothing. “That may be, Fëanáro. But you weren’t blameless either. To heal you must acknowledge your own misdeeds. As I have.”

“You think I do not know what I did wrong?” Fëanor questioned, ghostly eyes narrowed in annoyance. “I am aware of what I am and what I am not. Blameless I never claimed to be. But what I want all of you to remember and acknowledge is that I was not born this way, Ammë. I was not born spiteful and angry and bitter at the world. No one is. In this I can understand Moringotto - violence is always a reaction. Yet he used it to conquer and realise his ambitions when they were denied to him, while I used it to fight for what is rightfully mine. What I created with my own hands.”

“Oh Fëanáro!” Míriel whispered, hesitatingly raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Melkor has your senses warped. His hold on you is so strong that you cannot see reason. You’re right. No one is born with hatred in their hearts. But onya, you never needed to learn it. He pushed you towards this darkness.”

Fëanor angrily wrenched away her hand, “This is what I mean! You all would conveniently blame either him or me for all things that go against you. But look inside yourselves. You are just as wrong as I was, as I am. And if you refuse to admit your own faults, then perhaps you commit a graver mistake than I ever did.”

A sadness settled on Míriel’s face then, as she replied, “I do know that I was wrong. That you, onya, needed me and I did not come back. I will forever regret that. At that time, all I could feel was this bone-deep weariness and nothing else mattered but my yearning for it to end. A sorrow so deep had taken root that I couldn’t shake it off. And by the time I did, after long years in these Halls, it was too late. I wish I could’ve heeded your and Finwë’s calls. But I did not. And for that, I am sorry. I wanted to come back to you, but I could not. I’ve waited for this moment for centuries. Yet now it is here, it feels wrong. The wrong place, the wrong time. And I…”

Fëanor averted his face, suspiciously blinking rapidly, melancholy apparent in his voice, “I dreamt of you. Often. In my dreams, we would be one happy family - like I saw around me everywhere. Like Atar and Indis and their children were. They became my escape for a long while - my dreams. And when I woke up and was confronted with the cruelty that was my life, I turned to my work. Little did I know that both were a waste of time. My dreams would never be real and my work would never be respected, only coveted. Had you never left, Ammë, I believe the world would have been a very different place today.”

“Will you never forgive me for being who I am?” Míriel beseeched, reaching out to turn his face towards her. “Will you not accept my love now, even though it might be too late? Will you punish me for ages to come for a moment of weakness and ailment, not of my making?”

“No, I could never,” Fëanor choked out, taking her in his arms. “I will not turn away from the one thing that ever had I desired above all else. You have my forgiveness, Ammë, and my love you have always held.”

“My Fëanáro,” Míriel breathed, clutching him close to her bosom. “Onya. Oh, how I’ve missed you!”

“And I you.”

Pulling away, Míriel once again took hold of his face with her hands, “I promise you, tyenya. I abandoned you once, but never again. Even if I have to wage war on the world myself, but I swear, mercy you shall have. For you are right. The very enemy you died fighting, he too was given a second chance. Yet he had acted solely of his own volition, without any outside influences. But you reacted, onya. And I refuse to let Moringotto’s treatment be better than yours.”

“It is not mercy for myself that I want. But for my sons,” Fëanor said, gaze fixed on the memories of a world beyond. “I thought that being bound by the same oath would bring us closer. That having a shared goal would mean they are never left behind. But I have doomed them and that I never wanted. To share in my curse of abandonment, I would never wish it upon my own sons. Yet abandoned they are, by their parents, by the Valar, and by the world too. For who would follow kinslayers bound by an irrevocable oath?”

“They are not abandoned,” Míriel asserted with a conviction Fëanor was infamous for. “I am done with waiting for the world to pass me by. You are the Spirit of Fire, onya, but I am the Mother of Fire. And a mother fighting for her child is the deadliest being there is. My fire is no less bright than yours. If you could wage war on a Vala than I can too.”

“Do not invoke their doom on yourself too, Ammë,” Fëanor replied, “There are so few of our family left who do not have a terrible fate awaiting them.”

“What could be more terrible than watching my son and his sons wither away in these Halls?” Míriel countered. “I have nothing to lose. Nor do I intend to lose.”

“Ammë…”

“I will return, Fëanáro. And so will you to the living world,” Míriel vowed, placing a lingering kiss on his formless brow, then left to keep her promises. There would still be a champion for the House of Fëanor in Aman. Because Míriel had never given up on loving her family, just on life. And look what that had wrought. It was time to weave a better story for her family now. No matter how long it took.


	3. Of Learning Magic (Galadriel & Melian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melian giving Galadriel her first lesson on magic.

“You wish to learn magic,” Melian remarked neutrally.

“If you would be so kind as to teach me,” came the reply, Galadriel doing her best to sound humble and not whatever names people called her.

“Tell me, Nerwen of the Noldor, why should I teach you?”

Galadriel faltered, “Because sharing knowledge is how the world works. To hoard it would be against the Music of Eä.”

“Bold words. Yet they do not answer my question. Why should _I_ teach _you_?”

“Because I desire to learn. I wish to learn the magical arts to protect people, much like you do. And there is none a better master to learn under than you.”

Melian smiled, “You have the right heart, Nerwen. But not the right motive. I know you will use the magical arts to help people, but that is not why you wish to learn, is it?”

“I do not understand,” Galadriel said, tempering the urge to protest loudly in indignation.

“Let this be your first lesson then,” Melian answered gently. “Magic cannot be truly practised if the one wielding it is untrue. Your intent is what makes magic happen. If you lie to yourself, then your magic would be a lie too. At the heart of it, the magical arts are all about intent. Good or bad does not matter. What you intend is what you get. Now tell me, why do you truly wish to learn?”

And Galadriel understood. Melian had been meaning to strip her of her pretence at humility. It pained her to admit, but swallowing her pride, she replied, “Because I wish to be powerful like you. I wish to be revered by the people. Because I’m driven by my ambitions. I wish to be like no other elf has been.”

“At last,” Melian commented. “Remember this always, Nerwen. No motive is really right or wrong, only true or false. The answer of the first parameter depends on the one who’s judging it, but the latter is always judged by whose motive it is, and so, the answer can only be one. Much like magic. There is no good or bad magic, just magic or no magic.”

“I understand,” Galadriel said, dipping her head in acquiescence. “Thank you for teaching me that.”

“Do not thank me yet. I’m a very strict teacher,” Melian’s lips twitched at her own exaggeration, “Be at the fountain tomorrow at midnight and we shall begin.”

“I will be there.”

And she was. For many nights after that too. Always learning under the light of the moon, every art that Melian was willing to teach her.


	4. Of Lovers Left Behind (Finrod & Curufin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod asking Curufin what happened to his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in Hithlum after Fingolfin's host joined the Feanorian camp.

“Ah, Curufinwë!” called Finrod to the passing Noldo as he sat alone beside a dwindling fire in the pre-dawn hours. “It gladdens my heart to see you this morn.”

“Likewise, cousin,” Curufin said, coming to seat himself on the opposite log. “You’re awake early.”

“Never went to sleep,” Finrod explained. “I assume Tyelpe is still abed then.”

Curufin smiled, “You assume right. That boy loves his sleep a bit too much.”

“Indeed. Sleep is a luxury to covet,” remarked Finrod, then brows furrowing, he asked, “Where is Tinwendë though? I haven’t seen her since… Well, Tirion actually. I hope she is in good health too.”

A harsh twist marred Curufin’s mouth as he replied coldly, “Pettiness does not suit you, Findaráto.”

“No, no,” denied Finrod, hastening to assure the Fëanorion of his sincerity. “Whatever you’re thinking, good cousin, I did not mean that.”

Curufin gave him a long look, judging his veracity for himself before he replied quietly, “She stayed in Aman.”

“Oh. I was unaware, Curufinwë. Forgive me my ignorance.”

“Forgiven. I do believe you meant no offence, for we share our sundering from our beloveds, do we not?”

Finrod nodded, “Yes. Amarië too stayed back. As I asked her not to follow me here.”

Something in his tone irked Curufin then, “You believe that I did not ask the same of my wife.”

Eyes widening in alarm, Finrod tripped over his words to clarify, “Never! I did not- of course, you would- I…”

“Peace, cousin!” Curufin said, chuckling at his reaction. Sometimes it was so easy to rile up perfect Findaráto. “Tinwendë herself decided to stay back. I would’ve wished her to be with me, but I understand why she wouldn’t. And it is better this way.” He then noticed Finrod’s compassionate face, sharing in his pain, and commented, “You see good in everything, Ingo. None can accuse you of malice and not be called a liar.”

“What others think of me concerns me not-”

“You mean ‘much’.”

Finrod pouted, “Alright. It concerns me _not much_. But what my family thinks of me, that matters a lot. And I would not have you harbour ill-will towards me because of some unintended offence on my account.”

“You do not have to worry over that, Ingo,” said Curufin gently. “That I can assure you of. My brothers and I are your friends.”

“And I yours. Call on me in need and I shall come. This I promise you.”

Curufin smiled then, a genuine one that reminded Finrod of Fëanor. The resemblance between father and son in that moment was striking. “Your word is worth much,” Curufin remarked, and added playfully, “And I shall hold you to it.”

But Finrod didn’t register the teasing tone, as a foreboding came over him in that moment. He knew then, that whatever doom was designed for him, it would be connected to Curufinwë Fëanorion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tinwendë means spark-maiden (a name I made up, of course).


	5. Of Always on the Shores (Elrond & Maglor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Maglor after the War of Wrath and Maedhros' death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt:  
What's your take on Maglor: pain and regret forever or he went to live with Elrond according to the Silm's older versions? What did they say either in their last meeting or alternatively when they meet again after the Silmaril theft and Maedhros's death?

“I thought I would find you here,” Elrond said, finally spotting Maglor as he stood staring at the looming fortress before them. The Peredhel had waited a long time for the Fëanorions to return after they had escaped with the Silmarils. He had been confident in their love for the twins that if nothing else, they would send word discreetly of their well-being. But no news had come and Elrond had grown restless. Elros had suggested asking the Valar about their fate but Elrond was reluctant to reveal the depth of the love he held for the Kinslayers. There would be no sympathy for them, not there. So the twins had searched on their own. When at last Ulmo took pity and informed them of what had occurred with the Fëanorions, Elros had abandoned the search for Maglor in his grief over Maedhros. His twin may tease him all he wanted for his softness, but Elrond knew that it was Elros who was the more sensitive of the two. No wonder he had chosen mortality over an eternity of watching his loved ones die. But Elrond could not leave the one he called ‘adar’ to grieve alone. So here he was, on the isle of what remained of Himring, once the great seat of Lord Maedhros.

“I always found Himring to be a reflection of Maedhros,” Maglor remarked, never once looking away from the tower he gazed upon. If one looked hard enough through the fog, they could see the window of the study where Maedhros had spent most of his time in. “Tall, proud, defiant… weathering the harshest of storms all with the inner fire undimmed and strength unfailing. And I wondered if Himring had survived this latest tribulation of the Valar when my brother could not.”

Elrond flinched at the blankness of his tone, “I am sorry.”

“For what?” Maglor asked.

“For his death.”

“No. If Maedhros himself was not sorry for having jumped to his death, then you and I do not get to be sorry either. He made his choice, the least we can do is not regret it for his sake.”

Elrond stared at the profile of the elf who refused to turn and meet his eyes. But he knew what he would find there if he did. “I do not regret it for his sake, but for yours, Adar. His choice of death meant leaving you behind.”

Maglor, at last, turned then, looking far older than how Elrond remembered him. “No. I’m left behind because I will it. The same choice is before me as was before him. And I’ve chosen to live. For death is not repentance enough for all of us.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised Elrond. It was so unusual for Maglor to speak against his elder brother. But recalling his own furious words after Elros had taken the mortal path, he supposed bitterness was an inevitable aspect of loving deeply. “Yes, but you do not have to repent alone. Come with me. Please.”

Maglor sighed, closing his eyes briefly before replying, “I wish I could, ion nín. But you know as well as I that I cannot. Our paths diverged long ago, and for the better too. I’m a relic of your past now. A terrible, terrible past. You must let me go.”

“Not all terrible,” Elrond stated, closing the distance between them. “Most of it was a time I shall cherish all my life. You’re my family, Adar. You, Elros, Maedhros. Yet one of them is dead and the other is dying. Do not deprive me of your presence too.” He reached out then, taking Maglor’s hands in his own and raised them to kiss the burnt flesh of his palm.

“Oh, penneth,” Maglor breathed out, freeing a hand to touch his face. “You have a far greater family than Maedhros and I could ever be. There yet live your cousins Gil-Galad and Galadriel. And your Sindarin kinsmen, Celeborn and Círdan. Go to them and find my nephew if you can. But live the life you were always meant to, Elrond. You’re destined for a far grander fate than being a Kinslayer’s foster-son.”

“I care not for a grander fate, Ada-”

“You should. My role in Arda’s song is done. But you, my son, have barely begun singing. Let the world hear what you have to say.”

Elrond shook his head, “I can do it all with you by my side. Indeed, I will live better _with_ you, Adar. Please, come with me. I beg you.”

“Do not beg!” Maglor said, a hint of the power his voice was capable of, returning in that moment. “Your mother Elwing never did. She rather chose to jump than beg us to spare her. I secretly admired her for that. Foolish it was, but it takes courage to do what she did.”

“And pride,” Elrond added sullenly. “It wasn’t courage alone that moved her feet that day. She may not have begged, but you taught me that there’s no shame in bowing. No pride greater than love. So yes, I will beg if I have to. Come back with me.”

“Tell me, what do your visions show you?” Maglor asked abruptly. “Am I ever by your side in them?”

“Yes. You are.”

Maglor regarded him with a very familiar knowing look in his eyes, “Was the vision perchance of this moment right here and now?”

Elrond looked away guiltily, “Er… But visions change! They depend on the choices we make. Nothing is certain.”

“Yet I’ve made my choice and that is certain. And though I do not deserve it, I ask you to respect my wishes one last time. Leave me and do not come back.”

“Adar…” Elrond whispered, knowing that there was no bargaining with Maglor now. The Fëanorion could be stubborn when he wanted to.

Maglor caught his face between his hands then, “Know that I love you. I cannot fathom why Eru blessed me with you and Elros, but I’m immensely grateful that he did. I’ve known no greater joy than being called ‘adar’ by you. Go with my blessing now, whatever is left of it for me to give. Go and prosper, ion nín. May the grace of the Valar always be with you.”

Elrond was crying as Maglor kissed his brow, then both his eyelids in the custom of a Noldor father. “Adar, please,” he tried to say, but the words came out as a sob and he flung himself in Maglor’s arms, who held him just as tightly as he had when Elrond was an elfling scared of ringing bells.

“It is fitting that our last meeting be when once again the blood of our kin stains my sword,” Maglor commented wryly as he drew back after a while, wiping at his own eyes.

“I forgive you. I did long ago,” Elrond asserted, keeping hold of Maglor’s shoulders.

Maglor smiled sadly, “And while I am thankful, I cannot accept your forgiveness. Not here, not now.”

“You rejected my forgiveness once before too. But I will not let you brush this aside again. It is mine to give to whom I will. And I freely give it to you, Maglor Fëanorion, whether you want it or not.”

“Then it is one down and countless more to go,” Maglor commented with a self-deprecating twist to his mouth. “Yet it’s alright for I have eternity to earn them all. I hope.”

“And I shall be waiting for when you are done. On these shores or the other ones. I will look for your return, Adar,” Elrond replied and with a brisk nod, turned to walk back to the boat he had travelled on. Yet just once more he looked back to promise, “I love you. Always.”

And as he watched him depart, Maglor echoed back, “Always.”


	6. Of Goodbyes in Doriath (Galadriel & Melian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel's reaction to Melian leaving after Thingol's death.

“Nerwen.” The name which Melian had used as a tool to humble Galadriel in the beginning, left her lips as a dear sound oft made. Her fondness for the Noldorin elleth showed in the worn syllables that sounded as much a greeting as a goodbye now.

“You’re leaving,” Galadriel said, keeping her back to Melian refusing to turn.

“It is the greatest joy for a teacher when her student surpasses her,” Melian remarked. “You’re a master at mind-reading now.”

Galadriel turned then to face the widowed Maia, “I can never surpass you. And your attempt at evasion will not work with me.”

“I’m aware.”

“Why?” Galadriel asked, her voice hurt, disappointed, and baffled all at once, leaving no doubt as to what she referred to.

Melian mien turned sombre, “Grief - I’ve observed, Nerwen - can either propel one towards greatness or herald one’s decline.”

“And you’ve chosen decline, I see.”

“Nay, I’ve chosen rest. My spirit grows weary of Arda. There is nothing holding me here.”

“There is!” Galadriel replied. “If only you let go of your cravenness. Doriath needs you. If you go, then the girdle will fall and so might your people.”

“I know,” Melian said, bitterness marring her fair voice. “Do not forget that I too shoulder the burden of foresight.”

“Yet you will do nothing to prevent their torment. You would rather leave them to the Enemy’s mercy. Something which he does not possess. And I am starting to think - nor do you.”

“Do not be so hasty in your judgement, Nerwen. I see you have not learnt the most important lesson of ours,” Melian paused, letting Galadriel temper down her passion, before continuing, “Sometimes the ones with the power to see the future, are the very ones powerless to stop it. Merely because we can, does not mean we should. It’s a delicate balance we must strike between avoidance and endurance.”

Galadriel mulled that over for a moment, “So you believe the fate of Doriath is to be endured.”

“Yes. And aware of what is to come, will you still call me craven? That I choose to witness the suffering of my people rather than prevent it all? Can a coward really look tragedy in the eye when he knows that he cannot circumvent it?”

“No,” answered a chastened Galadriel.

“Then begrudge me not my departure,” beseeched Melian, smiling softly at the younger of the pair. “Indeed, should you not delight in having me away? So that your ambitions can be realised?”

“No ambition can be greater than the loss of a most beloved friend.”

“Oh my dear, Nerwen. You will never lose me. There can be no better part of myself that I leave with you than my teachings. You will always have them, so you will always have me.”

“Yet only in memories,” Galadriel replied, moving to clasp Melian’s hands in hers.

And the maia squeezed back, “You should know better than to think that things that were are in any way lesser than things that are. People tend to share that trait.”

“Even so, I shall feel your absence in my heart.”

“And I yours.” Melian leaned down to press a kiss on Galadriel’s brow, murmuring a prayer in the ancient language of the Ainur as she pulled away. “Follow your conscience and you will never regret.”

Galadriel nodded, “Thank you for helping shape me into who I am today. Farewell, Melian.”

“Until we meet again, Nerwen.”


	7. Of Play and Work (Amrod & Feanor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor with his youngest son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt:  
Feanor being grumpily fond with anyone of your choice.

“Atya,” called a little figure standing in the doorway.

Fëanor looked up from the notes he was reviewing for his latest project. A whisper of a thought was floating around his head lately, which if realised, could very well turn out to be his greatest creation to date. And he could ill afford any distractions now. “What is it, Telvo?”

“It’s morning,” Amrod replied, his little feet pattering on the floor as he walked over to Fëanor’s desk.

“So it is,” Fëanor said, glancing out the window to see Laurelin’s light shining through. “Why don’t you go and have some breakfast?”

“But it’s not _that_ morning yet,” the child stated, his face serious as if imparting some great wisdom.

Fëanor sighed in exasperation, “Well then, why don’t you play with Pityo until it is morning enough for you to eat?”

Amrod pouted, “He’s still sleeping. So is Moryo. And Curvo and Káno and Nelyo. And I couldn’t find Tyelko. He must be with Huan in the treehouse.”

“Your Ammë?”

“She is with grandfather Mahtan, Atya!”

The child’s incredulous tone reminded Fëanor that she had been gone for some days now. They had fought yet again. But he realised he was at fault this time. ‘Aren’t you always?’ a voice countered inside his head, sounding suspiciously like Nerdanel. And what it said wasn’t untrue either. “Ah, yes. I remember now, onya.”

“Will you play with me?” Amrod asked in a baleful tone, eyes blinking up at him in expectation.

Fëanor regretted demanding for the twins to stay back now. He hadn’t the time to look after them. And why was Nelyo still asleep? Laurelin was in full bloom by now. (Or so Fëanor believed after having stayed awake all night again.) The twins were supposed to be his problem. If Maitimo was going to shirk his duties, how was Fëanor to work in peace? Holding back his annoyance, Fëanor said, “I cannot, Telvo. Not now.”

“Oh.”

And the crestfallen expression adorning Amrod’s soft face pierced Fëanor’s heart like a poisoned arrow. The overwhelming guilt at having caused that prompted him to reply, “Perhaps just for a while.”

Amrod’s answer was a delighted grin and he jumped up and down, clapping his hands in enthusiasm. “Yes! Can we play the drawing game?” Fëanor tried not to grimace, but something must have shown on his face because Amrod’s smile dimmed and he added quietly, “Or whatever you want, Atya.”

“No, no, tyenya,” he hastened to deny. “The drawing game it is. But you must remember that Atya is not very good at it like Ammë is.”

Copper curls went bouncing around as Amrod nodded his head sagely, “No one is better than Ammë.”

And Fëanor agreed wholeheartedly, “Truer words have never been spoken.”

The child smiled then, reaching up to pull at Fëanor’s sleeve, “Come, Atya! Where is the chalk and slate?”

“Er… Must be here somewhere,” Fëanor said, glancing around his workshop to spot the items. 'Do I even have chalk and slate?’ he mused to himself, feeling yet again like he’s failing as a father. What parent doesn’t have their child’s toys strewn about their space? 'A bad one.’ There went his inner Nerdanel, doling out another dose of tough love. Oh, how he missed her!

“Atya?”

“What?” Fëanor followed the direction his son was pointing and noticed the slate tucked away on a dusty shelf in the corner. “Oh yes.” He moved to pick it up, but thinking better of it, he bent down to scoop up Amrod.

“Noooooo!” screeched the elfling, then started giggling as Fëanor swung him up high. Amrod made a grab for the slate but Fëanor pulled him away at the last moment. They kept at that for some time, Fëanor carrying Amrod around like a flying bird. And as joyous laughter rang around the workshop, Fëanor thought his work could wait. Indefinitely.


	8. Of Remembering Homes (Earendil & Elwing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Earendil and Elwing in the Havens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt:  
Elwing and Earendil remembering Doriath and Gondolin to each other while they're both kids in the Havens?

“What are you doing?” Earendil asked, peeking at the fluffy creature in Elwing’s palm.

Startled, Elwing turned, careful to keep her hold gentle. “It’s an injured gull. I’m trying to fix its leg.”

“It looks so tiny,” remarked he, coming closer to sit beside the girl.

“Well, of course,” Elwing replied, her tone haughty. “It’s a baby. They’re supposed to be tiny.”

“I know that!” Earendil protested indignantly. He wasn’t an ignorant child any longer. “Can I help?”

Elwing fixed him with a measuring gaze before she thrust her hands out, “Here. Take him. And hold him still.”

Earendil scrambled to obey. “But what if I hurt him?” he asked, even as he held out his palms to receive the tiny bird.

“You won’t if you’re gentle.” And she set out to work on fixing what looked like a sprained leg.

“How do you know what to do?”

Elwing shrugged, “I learned. I like birds. My mother did too.”

“Oh,” the boy didn’t know what to say.

But Elwing didn’t need any prompting for she continued in a quiet tone, “I don’t remember her much. But I know that she loved listening to the songbirds in Doriath. Each morning she’d wake me up and we’d go out into the forest to hear their sweet chirpings. That’s my only clear memory of her.”

Earendil was quiet for some moments as he watched her bind the tiny leg with the utmost tenderness. Then he replied, just as quiet as her words had been, “I listened to songs too. In Gondolin. But it was Ecthelion who sang them… On this beautiful silver flute of his. And I’ve never heard any sound more sweet. Nor will I ever.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

Elwing looked up at that, compassion shining in her eyes, “I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”

“Yes… But he’s resting now. Or so my mother tells me.”

“My family is resting too. In Lord Mandos’ Halls. I will meet them someday.”

“I hope you do,” Earendil said. “But not too soon. It shall pain me to lose another friend.”

“We’re friends?” Elwing asked, a shyly hopeful expression on her chubby face.

Earendil grinned, his missing incisor making him look younger than his experiences would make him. “I think so. Don’t you want to be friends? My father tells me that friends are like a second family. Once you make a friend, it’s forever.”

“Second family?” Elwing said, an unnamed emotion lacing her voice. “Yes. We can be friends. I’d like that very much.”

“Good! Friends then.” And they both laughed as the tiny gull gave a squeak in agreement.


	9. Of Last Glimpses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 different goodbyes between different Haleth & Haldar, Maedhros & Fingon, and Aredhel & Idril. Most final, one not.

“You absolute idiot!” Haleth shouted, as she rushed to stop her brother from charging out. “Look outside! There are too many of them!”

Haldar shrugged her hand from his forearm, “That’s our father dead out there. His body lies among those of our enemies’ and you wish me to stop?”

“I do,” she said, blocking his path. “He’s dead as you said. Nothing you can do for him. But our people need you here now.”

“How can you even say that?” Haldar asked, appalled at the sheer coldness of her statement. “That’s our father, sister. He died for our people. For you and me. And I shouldn’t even retrieve his body to be buried with the respect he deserved?”

Haleth shook her head in frustration, her voice taking on a near frantic edge, “The only respect we can pay him now, is to keep his people safe. So that his death was not in vain. You cannot do that if you’re dead too.”

“A leader is not one who hides.”

“A leader is he who is alive!”

“Have you so little faith in me, sister? That I shall go out and be promptly slain?”

Desperation took hold then, and Haleth let go of her pride to beg, “Please, Haldar. Go not forth. We will defeat those orcs, but not with recklessness.”

“It is not recklessness, but my duty to our father,” Haldar replied. He leaned forward to kiss her brow and murmured, “Stay here and fulfil what you know is your duty to our people. And let me fulfil mine.”

“Come back, please,” she whispered, before pulling back and straightening up. She was the Chief’s daughter and these were her people too. Haldar was right. A duty was owed by her too.

“I will,” he said reassuringly. But before he moved out, he halted at the doorstep to say, “But if I don’t, you be the leader who’s alive. And continue being alive for years to come. I wouldn’t wish to be annoyed by you so soon in death, you know?”

“Bold of you to assume you wouldn’t haunt my ass,” Haleth bit back, smiling as her brother left with a chuckle on his lips.

There were worse ways to go.

* * *

“You remember the plan, right?” inquired Maedhros.

“For the hundredth time, Maitimo, yes!” said Fingon. “We laid it out together. So of course, I remember. And it’s not _I_ who is getting old.”

“I’m not that older than you,” came the reply. “You have the helmet?”

“Yes, mother. And the chainmail, the shield, the sword, and my wits too. Not sure about you, though.”

Maedhros rolls his eye, “It’s that attitude which makes people think you’re still barely out of your elfling years.”

“What can I say? My charm hasn’t died yet.”

“And promise me you won’t either,” replied a solemn Maedhros.

Fingon’s eyes softened, “You know I cannot promise that. But I shall try my best.”

“That would be enough, Fingon the Valiant.”

* * *

“So, you’re really leaving,” Idril said as she entered the room.

“I’m afraid so, yes. Gondolin is beautiful but I yearn to feel the outside breeze in my hair.”

“You could go riding on the surrounding plains, instead?”

Aredhel glanced at the upset face of her niece and realised the root cause for this sudden clinginess from an otherwise independent elleth. “Idril. I will come back soon. You will not even feel my absence here.”

“How can I not? You’re the only mother I have here, Aunt.”

“Oh. my child! Come here.”

And Idril ran to the comfort of those familiar arms. “I shall miss you. You must come back before the Winter Fair. I refuse to go without you. And who will win the archery competition if not you, Aunt?”

Aredhel chuckled, smoothening the golden hair hanging loose behind Idril’s back. “I sure will! And you must save me a dance.”

“The first one. As always,” Idril replied, pulling back to smile up at her.

Then struck with a sudden impulse, Aredhel whispered, “One day, you too will wish to escape Gondolin.”

“What?” Idril asked, surprised at the ominous tone of her aunt. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” said Aredhel, shaking off her wayward thoughts. “Now off with you. Let me pack. And no running outside in the rain. The ground’s slippery.”

“No promises!” And laughing, Idril dashed away, barefoot as always.


	10. Brotherly Talks (Fingolfin & Feanor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin and Fëanor after the Oath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read. Done without a prompt.

“I would’ve loved you as a brother, had you not desired to be king,” Fëanor remarked the moment Fingolfin entered the former’s personal office in Tirion. He’d been called post-haste for a meeting with his brother after the terrible arguments in the High Court. With a few hours behind them, their tempers were much more malleable for a sensible conversation to be had and so, here they were. Fëanor stood with his back to him, staring at the sculpture of his mother that Nerdanel had made for him. The sight incited a twinge in his heart, for now he knew the pain of losing a parent. Yet Fëanor had lost both and Fingolfin could not help but admire him for his strength in enduring that. But that did not erase the gulf that separated them.

“Pity that your love flickers in the wind of my aspirations like a candle in a storm,” Fingolfin answered in a nonchalant tone.

Fëanor sighed, momentarily hunching in on himself before turning around, his eyes ablaze as always when standing before him. He scrutinised Fingolfin closely - watching, assessing his so-called rival - before he said, “It was not aspiration that drove you but ambition. Have you still not learned the difference?”

The tone just on this side of mocking got under his skin as usual. Fingolfin tried to resist the urge to snap back but old habits die hard, they say. “Are you so threatened by my ambition, Fëanáro?”

“An ambition that is imbued with hypocrisy,” was the quick retort. It reminded Fingolfin of a time when such back and forth was not actual arguments but educated debates they’d both grudgingly held with each other. How had the times changed from their youth- a contrast even more pronounced as Fëanor added sharply, “You condemned me for speaking on behalf of our people when Atar, our King, was alive. Despite that, now you lust after the crown that I yet wear on my brow.” He laughed then, a short sharp sound that echoed once and cut off just as abruptly. “You and I are not so unlike, Ñolofinwë. Half in blood we may be, but brothers we are still.”

Fingolfin scoffed, “At last you accept it, do you? After decades of denying our relation.”

“I never denied it. Merely lamented its existence,” Fëanor replied, his voice a touch rueful. But it was his steel-like eyes that compelled Fingolfin to believe the words. “I had no grievance with you, not until you made it one. You and your mother, plotting to usurp me and mine.”

All his hopes for this conversation to be peaceful vanished then. Why could Fëanor not leave it well enough alone? "Do not drag Ammë into this,“ he warned, eyes flashing. "She has treated you with nothing but motherly love.”

“I did not need it. Not from _her_,” Fëanor said, speaking true, for Indis’ love had never been what Fëanor needed in his life. But Fingolfin believed in his deepest of hearts, that Fëanor may have wanted it albeit himself. "And the one I needed it from,“ the elder continued, "cannot return to life as long as _she_ lives. No one is blameless. Not even Atar. Open your eyes, Ñolo. It is not just our existence that we owe our parents but our woes too.”

Fingolfin did not, _could not_ believe that. “Your woes are of your own making!”

“Dare you to lecture me on my woes?” Fëanor asked, tone sharpened like the blades he made himself - forged in fire both were.

And he heeded the edges of his brother’s voice, just as he had heeded the edges of his sword that day which had started it all. “You have turned jaded, Fëanáro,” he commented gravely, eyes dimming a little in realisation. “Do not let the Black One’s manipulations embitter you furthermore.”

“It’s not Moringotto!” Fëanor declared passionately. “How can you not see, Ñolo? Has this darkness turned you blind to the ruses of the Valar? If we could come to Aman freely, we can leave it too.”

“I will not let you lead the people into inevitable peril.” Not as long as there was breath in his lungs. This whole vow to retrieve the Silmarils was a fool’s errand. Fingolfin would sooner cross the Helcaraxe than he would let his people be led into slaughter for a few shiny gems. Regardless of whether the Valar wanted them for curing this eternal darkness or not.

The spirit of fire gave a bitter laugh, “You mean you will not let _me_ lead them. Yet you will do the leading quite happily yourself, will you not, _brother_?” The title was spat out the same way Fëanor said the Black Vala’s name - with utter disgust. “It is only my rule you take exception to, not our exile to Arda.”

“I wish to avenge Atar,” Fingolfin asserted, standing squarely in front of him. “But I am not so deluded as to think it will be easy.”

“No, it will not be easy. Yet that matters little to me.” A wry smirk twisted Fëanor’s lips then, “_You_, on the other hand, have merely inherited all of our Atar’s face and none of his bravery.”

He bristled, once again rising to the bait as was his wont. The long years have taught him nothing it seemed. “I am brave. I’m more Atya’s son than you could ever be,” Fingolfin couldn’t help taunting. “And like he traversed the continent with his people before, so shall I now. All the while respecting his wish for us to get along.”

“So you will follow me to Arda then?” Fëanor asked, suddenly solemn - as if a cloak of responsibility had been flung on him, elongating the shadow he cast, transforming him into someone worthy of being called King. Maybe there was hope yet.

So Fingolfin dropped to his knee, surprising Fëanor - and truth be told - even himself. “As subject to his liege, I swear it on my honour as Prince.” He looked up then, meeting sincere eyes for once, stripped of all scorn. “And mayhaps afterwards it will stand proven that I am neither craven nor envious.”

An almost fond smile graced Fëanor’s lips and he reached out a hesitant hand to rest upon his head. “Still hungering for my approval, are you, Ñolofinwë? You’re past that age, leave that to your children.”

The teasing tinge dispelled any lingering doubts in his mind about trusting his zealous brother. “I only pursue things I can achieve,” he replied in just as lighthearted a manner. “Your approval is not one of them.”

“It may be more within your reach than you might think,” Fëanor stated, tugging him up to stand as Fingolfin looked at him in barely concealed bewilderment. “The real question is if you will have my trust.”

That hurt. After all this, would Fëanáro still not believe him? What had made him so untrusting of people around him? It could not have been Moringotto alone, much to their shame. Yet that was a mystery for another time. “If that is a challenge, Fëanáro, then I accept,” he said in answer. “I will have both your approval and your trust, my King… My brother.”

Fëanor looked amused, but without the mockery that accompanied it, “Let us hope you achieve that within our lifetimes.”

“We are immortal,” he pointed out, arching an eyebrow like his mother used to - something which Maedhros had picked up too, much to Fëanor’s chagrin.

“So were my Ammë and Atya. Yet do you see either amidst us today, do you?” The reply promptly shut him up. And whatever levity they had was further disseminated when Fëanor’s voice turned serious, urgent almost. "Trust nothing and no one, Ñolo. Not even the things you were taught as true. Do that and you may yet survive long enough to prove me wrong.“

The advice rang as a warning in his ears. Fëanor’s eyes were compelling him to see something, a hint of things unspoken underneath. And as he stared into those fiery eyes, it seemed for a moment that he and Fëanor understood each other. For the briefest of blinks, he peeked inside Fëanor’s mind. But the chaos it was home too, revealed nothing to him. Nothing whose meaning he could grasp at.

But later, when Fingolfin would watch ships being burned on the other side of the sea, he would finally put together some pieces of the puzzle that was his half-brother and think, ‘I was indeed warned. Trust no one and nothing. Not even the brother’s love you never had.’


	11. Whole Again (Galadriel & Finrod)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel reunites with Finrod upon her return to Aman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited as usual (I have the attention span of a human, sorry)

“Where is he?” Galadriel asked, eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd for their welcome to the everlasting shores.

Finarfin seemed to avoid her eyes as he answered, “He would not come.”

A delicate eyebrow arched high on her forehead then and her tone turned amused, “Is he aware avoidance would only prolong the inevitable?” She tutted quietly once. “I thought he would know better by now.”

Celebrian huffed a laugh and Galadriel turned to regard her daughter who was still tucked close to Elrond’s side after their tearful reunion. “Uncle Finrod is scared of your wrath, Naneth,” she remarked. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Yet I was not the one who fought a werewolf barehand,” Galadriel shot back, face turning blank of all emotions.

It was Amarie who winced sharply at that, drawing every eye in their vicinity. The Vanya looked up sheepishly and said, “It’s not his death that he regrets, sister.”

Something flashed in Galadriel’s eyes, pain long-buried behind ages worth of memories. But it felt as fresh as the day she had realised deep within her soul that her eldest brother had departed for the Halls. She had been hurting for over two ages now, yet Finrod had the gall to make her wait further to see him alive again. Had death turned him so callous? Galadriel had seen firsthand how death could change people - whether their own or a loved-one’s. She herself had weathered too many losses to stay that same little Artanis who had shadowed her brother’s every step. Is this truly how Finrod would treat her after all this time?

No. She would not believe it. She could not. So with all the power of intimidation at her disposal, Galadriel turned to her father again. “Call him forth, Atar.”

Finarfin startled, unused to having such heavy gaze levelled at him - full of raw power and sheer will. His little princess was neither little nor a princess anymore. Before him stood a queen who had undoubtedly seen more wars than he, yet still lived to tell the tale. Most of them had perished in one. But not Nerwen. Never her.

“He’s not here,” Finarfin said, willing himself to meet her intensity with a calmer one of his own. One ruler to another. For she was still a ruler, even though her Lorien was hers no more.

“Lying does not become you, my King,” Galadriel commented, a severity underlying her voice. “But very well. If you will not, then I shall do it myself.”

Amarie made a noise of protest but Galadriel ignored it in favour of scanning the crowd once again to look for the proud figure of her brother. The place was teeming with people though, noble and common - everyone from young to old was present at the docks to see them back. It did not help her search. Maybe Finrod had learned to disguise himself well, at last. What a shame. Feeling thus desperate, Galadriel tapped into Nenya and allowed its power to channel her hidden senses. And it turned out that Celebrimbor’s creation held value in Aman too, perhaps even greater than in Arda, for she spotted Finrod hiding in the shade of an arch a ways back but with a clear view of the docks. So there he was.

“Ingo,” she whispered with a smile. “Brother.”

Galadriel watched as the hunched figure straightened in surprise as her voice echoed in his head, and unerringly, their eyes met, even across the distance. She held still, her face frozen in an easy and open expression while she felt anything but inside. Finrod withdrew at first but then making up his mind, he started making his way to them in long strides. The crowd parted around him as he walked and she surmised that Finrod’s presence still had an effect on people. When he was mere feet away, she saw Elrond looking uncharacteristically wide-eyed in her periphery. Some things never change, it seemed - people being starstruck by Finrod’s beauty one of them.

Finrod came to a stop at arm’s length from her, his hood falling away with a slight flick of his head, revealing the face of his reconstructed body. Galadriel kept herself from gawking at the scars that were now visible to her eyes. A long claw-mark ran over the side of his neck, just catching the edge of his chin and winding back to meet a bite mark at the juncture of his shoulder. For him to have scars in this body… Galadriel refused to think of what it meant for the violence of his death. This was neither the time nor the place for her to have a breakdown about things long past. So she just stared into his eyes, just taking a moment to refresh the memory of his face in her mind.

And he did the same to her. Finrod simply looked at her, his eyes hiding whatever was going on inside his head. There was not even a whisper of his emotions on his face until all of a sudden he was hugging her tightly. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice choking on all the things unsaid for ages that just wanted to burst out now. Galadriel’s eyes watered as Finrod’s tears soaked the skin of her neck and she returned the hug just as fervently, arms enveloping his back, hands fisting the fabric of his tunic. The onlookers averted their gazes to give them some privacy, but even so, Galadriel squeezed her eyes shut, much like she knew Finrod’s were.

“Artanis,” he sobbed, barely audible amidst the gasping breaths he was taking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you behind.”

“I forgave you,” she said, working past the lump in her throat, “Ages ago.” A small watery laugh escaped her lips then. “I wish I could have returned sooner. I wanted to.” That was something she had never told anyone before. Not even Celeborn whom she had spent many evenings whispering her secrets to. What could she have said? That it was her only her pride keeping her from begging the Valar’s forgiveness? That she wanted to prove herself before coming back to the land she had been exiled from? That every day spent apart from her family was a day she regretted? She could not have. Because they all had been guilty of one sin - Pride. It had brought the Noldor to ruin and she was no exception, despite the power she held now. Nothing was worth it.

“But you’re here now,” Finrod replied quietly, still hiding behind the veil their golden hair created around them. “That’s all that matters.”

“Yes,” Galadriel murmured back, sniffing once to reign in her tears. “I’m here now, brother.”

Giving her one last squeeze, Finrod stepped back from the embrace. He gave her a smile then, one she did not know she had been waiting for all this time. “And so I am whole again,” he mused, fondness shining in his eyes as bent to kiss her forehead while Galadriel resisted the childish urge to smack his arm for making her tear up once more. But she couldn’t fault him for stating the truth. Because she herself felt a hole in her heart slowly healing, feeling surrounded by the love of her birth family on all sides. Standing there in her brother’s arms, Galadriel breathed, at last, free of the burden she had been carrying. It felt like a homecoming. It felt complete.

Yes. So she was whole again. They both were.


	12. A Parental Figure (Celebrimbor & Finrod)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor looks at Finrod and thinks 'mother'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less centred on dialogue this time. Inspired by a post on tumblr: https://venwe.tumblr.com/post/190492320135/venwe-what-does-it-say-about-me-if-i-want-to

Celebrimbor often found himself looking at Finrod, with a gaze many would call longing. But not for the reasons the gossip-mongers in Nargothrond’s court would have you believe. He had never desired his fair cousin, not as a lovelorn person did. But he still yearned for Finrod, ever since he and his father and uncle had been welcomed into the city with open arms and Celebrimbor had finally gotten to know the eldest Arafinwion better. It was a desire to have Finrod’s love - the love the King gave away to his people and his siblings and his cousins and his friends and so many others. But Celebrimbor wanted more. He wanted Finrod to reserve that proud smile for him, that pat on the shoulder, that ruffling of the hair, that warm hug each morning, that fussing when he was hurt, that motherly instinct that Finrod reserved for only people closest to him. Celebrimbor hadn’t even known that such a side to his wise and cheerful cousin even existed. But he ached for it all the same.

It hadn’t even been like that at first. Celebrimbor was wary of the new place and its King when they had fled Himlad to find refuge in Nargothrond. His father and uncle’s carefully hidden aggression did not help matters either. But Finrod… He had chipped away at their walls little by little until nothing but a facsimile of a barrier separated him from the three. It had surprised Celebrimbor how both Curufin and Celegorm had relaxed around Finrod, letting go of the tension they always carried around anyone who wasn’t a Fëanorian. How they both had trusted Finrod enough to let him in and more surprisingly, let him take care of them. All of the Fëanorions were proud creatures who would scoff at the very notion of needing anyone to look after them. It was self-reliance that ran in their blood, along with some entitlement that helped feed that notion. But never would they accept comfort freely given. Yet they did when it was Finrod giving it. Celebrimbor had never known that they were close with Finrod. It seemed he had not known many things.

“You enjoy it,” Celebrimbor had remarked one day as he watched Finrod conduct his business in the royal study.

“Enjoy what, tyenya?” Finrod had asked, looking up briefly from his papers to shoot him a smile.

And Celebrimbor’s heart had constricted at the endearment. It was things like this that made him want to have all of Finrod’s love to himself. All of his attention so that he could bask in its warmth. “You enjoy taking care of others,” he had stated, suddenly sure in his belief that Finrod loved being the provider of his realm. Be it food, shelter, clothing, work, or just plain comfort and happiness.

Finrod had paused, a thoughtful expression taking over his features as he had mulled that over. “I do,” he had answered after a moment. “It feels good to be needed, does it not? To be the cause of someone’s smile. That is what I believe my purpose in this life is.”

And Celebrimbor had said nothing in return. What could he have? Finrod was the noblest of them all. And the warmest too. In a way, he reminded Celebrimbor of his mother. Well, his mother before the Oath had been sworn that is. She had been all things warm and happy and comfortable. Just like Finrod. She had believed in dedicating her life to the betterment of people too. She had been an altruist. Just like Finrod. And Celebrimbor had loved her with all his heart and then some. But the very things he had loved her for, had taken her away from him. His mother had chosen to stay in Aman after what had happened at Alqualondë. Because: “Slaying kin is not what I want for you, Curufinwë. Nor our child. This path will end in bloodshed one way or the other. Let us turn back, please. I beg you.” But they hadn’t turned back, not even when the ships had sailed and she had been left standing on the shore - mourning the doom that had yet to befall them. Celebrimbor wondered if leaving her had been the ultimate doom in itself. He had been too blinded by his thirst for adventure to really rethink his anger at his mother for staying behind. She had been a sage and he a simple fool who now missed the peace her hands in his hair had brought him. There was no going back. But.

But here was Finrod, with his casual praises, and sunny smiles, and fond kisses on cheeks, and exasperated sighs, and worried questions, and shoulders to cry on, and teasing remarks, and an understanding presence. Celebrimbor couldn’t help but secretly think of him as the mother he had lost. And really, Celebrimbor should stop being jealous of the love Finrod shared so easily with others. The fact that Celebrimbor had gone on so long without a mother’s love should not mean Finrod’s love was only for him. He had no claim on it. At least he hadn’t.

It wasn’t until he slipped once and called Finrod ‘ontarë’ out loud that things had changed between them. It had been a simple brooch he had crafted, nothing worthy of note. Not even his own father’s stilted praise had convinced him of its worth. Celebrimbor had been ready to throw it away or melt it or crush it, anything to stop laying his eyes on it. But then Finrod had glimpsed it in his small workshop, despite his efforts to hide it, and his golden-haired cousin had been delighted. Much to his chagrin.

“Oh, so exquisite! The engraving is simply too beautiful for words,” Finrod had remarked, holding up the sapphire and gold jewel up to take a closer look. “Did you make this, Tyelpë?”

Celebrimbor had wanted to deny it, but something in Finrod’s eyes had compelled him to confess to his craftsmanship. “Yes.”

“You have a gift, cousin,” Finrod had said, giving him a long look. “It is something to be proud of. Even when you think your talent isn’t much. Failures are an important part of the learning process. More so than success, for failures push you towards excellence. That is not to say this brooch is a failure. I think it is marvellous. And I do know a thing or two about jewels, why, my whole realm is one!”

Celebrimbor had laughed then, “That it is.”

“Can I keep this? I promise it will be cherished, as the most precious of treasure I have. Just like you, tyenya.”

The emotion that had come over him could not be described in words. Celebrimbor did not lack for love - not between his father and all his uncles. But perhaps he lacked for an expression of that love. So much that Finrod’s words broke something inside him and he flung his arms around the elder, surprising him. “Ontarë! I…”

They both had frozen as soon as the word had registered in their mind. Celebrimbor had been so mortified that he made to pull away, but Finrod had tightened his hold on him. “Hush, onya. It’s alright.”

Needless to say, Celebrimbor hadn’t stopped crying for a long time after that gentle acceptance. And if Finrod had shed a tear or two of his own, then only the one he called 'son’ had bore witness.

After that shift, Celebrimbor had not ceased to be jealous though. He had Finrod’s love, most of it, in fact. But still, he had felt an acute fear of losing him and no amount of reassurance on Finrod’s part had rid him of that. His father and uncle had noticed the change, but they had never asked him. If they questioned Finrod - about why he hovered over Celebrimbor so much, about why he fretted over his diet and sleep and whatever else he could worry over, about why he suddenly called him onya so much - then Celebrimbor never found out. The only acknowledgement came in the form of his uncle commenting out of nowhere during dinner once, “I’m happy for you, Tyelpë. You could have worse role-models.” And Celebrimbor had not deemed it necessary to correct him that Finrod was more than that to him. So they never found out. Not even when Finrod died on a suicidal quest and they were driven away from Nargothrond, leaving Celebrimbor to mourn two more parents that he will never see again. Parents who had promised to never leave him, but had anyway. Yet it wouldn’t stop him from loving them. Not once.


	13. Burning Starlight (Maglor & Maedhros)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The light of Eärendil the star burns Maedhros and Maglor like how sunlight burns vampires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short piece between Maedhros and Maglor after Eärendil rises in the sky.

“Nelyo,” came Maglor’s hushed voice from behind him. “Come back inside please.”

“Just a while longer,” Maedhros replied, eyes still closed against the moon that shined in his face.

Maglor tutted, exasperated, “Why do you torment yourself like this?”

Torment. Maedhros could have laughed at that. His brother knew nothing about the weight that word carried. “This is but a minor inconvenience, Káno. Something we must overcome if we are to have any hope of fulfilling our Oath.”

“I do not care about that thrice-damned Oath right now,” was the impatient reply, accompanied with an insistent tugging on his cloak - so reminiscent of their childhood when Maglor would grab a hold of his robe when he got overwhelmed. That silent tug then would have been enough for Maedhros to turn his attention to the younger, and it would always catch him off-guard when Maglor would instantly relax upon meeting his eyes. “There’s safety to be found in your gaze, brother,” Maglor had explained once.

But Maedhros doubted he could meet those searching eyes now and impart anything but the abundant doubts he carried. So he stepped forward, freeing his cloak from the hesitant fingers that had held it. “You will care about that Oath. Sooner or later,” Maedhros said, a grim reminder of the reality they had bound themselves to.

“That may be,” Maglor conceded, voice low and tired, as was the norm for them now. “But I care about you _now,_ Maitimo. And that star is burning you. I cannot allow it.”

Maedhros sighed, his right shoulder moving up in a half shrug, which caused more of his naked arm to be exposed to the starlight. “I’m not asking you to allow-”

“Enough,” the command cut through the air, quick and harsh much like the hand that darted out to clamp on his forearm. “Come inside, now,” Maglor reiterated and this time Maedhros acquiesced - if only to prevent Maglor from feeling the sting that left deep red patches behind on their skin. A work of the new starlight that shone in the night sky now.

So he let himself be tugged into the safety of four walls and a roof. Their current abode wasn’t the palaces and fortresses they inhabited before, but it worked adequately in providing them shelter from the light that burned. The very light they had sworn an irrevocable Oath to retrieve.

“I just wished to understand why,” Maedhros spoke in a hush, later, when he sat still as Maglor worked an ointment onto his reddened skin.

“Why what?”

“Why the Silmaril burns us now. When it never did before. It cannot be the Oath as Morgoth wore all three in his crown but I never felt it then. So why now? What has changed?”

Maglor paused and a moment after looked up. There was pity in his gaze - hidden, yet there - but an answer he did not have.

Maedhros wasn’t expecting any. Nor hoping for one. He had gone without answers for so long. And hope, like their elven lives, might be resilient but it wasn’t immortal. So he had stopped looking for answers to his questions and doubts and, above all, his prayers.

(What Maedhros did not know was that Maglor had an answer, but not the words to say it with. For how could Maglor tell him that the reason why Maedhros never felt the Silmaril burn him before was most likely because he had been in too much pain to feel the sting of it then. How could Maglor remind him of those years he had abandoned him to torment worse than death? His own brother? How could he do that when it had taken Maedhros decades to move past that nightmare.)

((What Maglor did not know was that Maedhros had never moved past it. He felt like he never would.))


	14. The Third Host

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor goes through water. Fingolfin over frozen land. Finarfin decides to tunnel under it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is crack and not meant to be taken seriously at all. But I wanted to save it so adding it here. The original post is here: https://eccentricmya.tumblr.com/post/190425913932/venwe-gurguliare-do-you-ever-wonder-if-after

“Not by water, air, or ice can you journey to Arda,” Mandos declared. “The way is shut. You made your choice, Arafinwë, there is no turning back again.”

“Well, if we cannot go over the land, we’ll go under it.”

xx

“Faster! And check the line. We’re supposed to tunnel straight ahead,” said Anairë.

“I _am_ tunnelling straight!” replied an irritated Nerdanel. “How do you even know what is straight? There is only one direction and that’s ahead.”

“You’re right. I’m just tired of the darkness,” Anairë sighed, picking up her own shovel.

“It’s not like there was much light above either,” Eärwen quipped from their right. The line of the Noldor at the front was some 30 wide, making way for the ones behind who were resting after their shifts.

“We’ll soon be there, ladies. Do not give up hope now,” Amarië interjected in her cheery voice. If she could find a reason to be chirpy - she who had been disowned by her parents for choosing to follow the remaining Noldor - then they could too.

“Never again!” Míriel vowed, meeting Indis’ eyes who smiled in response.

“No time to waste. Tally-ho!” Findis shouted, grinning madly and reminding everyone that she was the one born right after Fëanor.

“Er. I don’t think ‘tally-ho’ is the appropriate choice of word here,” Tinwendë, Curufin’s wife, commented hesitantly. “That’s for use on a hunt when you spot the quarry.”

“Well, our bloody quarry is right there, isn’t it?” Findis argued stubbornly.

“Let’s not lose our focus here,” said Indis, in a tone that left no room for argument.

Eärwen gave a mock salute, “Aye aye, Captain!”

The rest rolled their eyes before going back to their task of digging up under the sea.

xx

“Can you feel it?” Míriel asked the others, voice holding hope despite her experience to the contrary.

Nerdanel quirked a brow, “The change in temperature? Yes. It’s warmer now.”

“We have done it. We’ve crossed the sea then!” Arafinwë said, a glint of happiness lighting up his eyes.

“Not until we’re back on the upside,” Anairë reminded, ever the reasonable one. “We tunnel upwards!”

xx

It takes them years ultimately, but they do make it to land and air above.

“Err. Is this how Arda looks?” A nervous Tinwendë queried, taking in the sight of black stones all around and stifling heat enveloping them.

“By Eru, what is that!?” Amarië cried out in horror, seeing a gruesome creature rounding the corner of the wide space where their tunnel opened into.

Míriel cursed, “Yrch! Arm yourselves!”

The battle inside Angband lasted for hours. Exhausted as they were, the Noldor put up a valiant fight, worthy of songs to be sung for ages to come. And as they emerged victorious, the Silmarils in their possession and the Black Vala fleeing his own fortress, the sun was shining high up in the sky.

“Splendid!” remarked an awed Findis as they took in the brilliant sunlight for the first time. “Never before has air smelled sweeter or the light of the Valar felt brighter.”

“It is victory that you experience, daughter,” Indis replied with a smile. “And freedom at last.”

“Shall we find our kin?” Arafinwë asked, coming to stand beside the two. “That is why we are here after all.”

“Indeed,” answered Eärwen. “I cannot wait to see our children.”

xx

“Brother!?” Fingolfin gasped, riding ahead of the party that had spotted a host approaching from the north and promptly alerted him. They were ready for battle. Not for the kin they left behind in Aman to show up. “Ammë! Anairë!”

“Yes, yes,” huffed an irritated Findis. “We’re all delighted to see each other. Can I get a bath now?”

“How? We thought…” That was Fingon, still processing all the familiar faces he was seeing. Faces he thought only death would return him to.

“That, dear nephew, is a very long story,” Nerdanel replied, smirking at the expressions the welcoming host had on their faces.

“And a funny one too,” Tinwendë supplied. “But tell me, where are my son and wayward husband?”

“Oh you’re in for a ride!” Lalwen said, laughing wildly and pulling Findis in for a hug. Whatever their journies, every path had led them to that moment, reunited at last. And that was what mattered. For now.


	15. I Win (Maedhros & Maglor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros learns the sword again after his rescue and Maglor learns him.

"Are you sure about this?” Maglor asked, staring at the wooden swords Maedhros had asked to be brought in.

“I have to start somewhere, Káno,” Maedhros said, hefting one of the swords up to weigh it in his hand. He had already remarkably improved in keeping the balance on his swings. But now the next phase of his arm training required him to start practicing real combat. He could only hack away at the dummies for so long before the itch to improve started again.

And Maglor understood that, he really did. But frankly, Maedhros still looked like an animated frame of bones and Maglor didn’t want to risk it. Or maybe it was that Maglor _himself_ didn’t want to be the one to inevitably hurt him. Again.

“No, I meant, are you sure you want to practice with me?” He asked, trying not make it obvious that if given the choice, he would’ve rejected Maedhros’ request. But he didn’t have the right to say no. Not to Maedhros. Not after everything.

Maedhros turned to him with a quizzical brow, “Who else would I trust with this?”

And he said that as if it was apparent. No hesitation at all. Just the quiet bafflement that let Maglor know Maedhros was completely serious. Which is why, he refrained from bringing up Fingon. They’d already had several arguments over ‘Maglor’s supposed inferiority to Fingon’ - or that’s what Maedhros painted it as. Maglor just called it the truth. It hadn’t been Maglor who’d rescued Maedhros from Morgoth’s clutches, after all. No. He’d just abandoned him to it. 'Supposed’ inferiority, indeed!

But those arguments were one of the few instances when the Maedhros of old had shone through - frustratingly stubborn and infuriatingly logical. Maglor wasn’t even ashamed to admit that he’d instigated some of those by deliberately being self-deprecating. And if he had felt happy and sick in equal measure at hearing his injured brother calmly praise him, well, only Eru would know.

Yet for all his manipulations, when Maedhros had made up his mind that it would be Maglor who’d help him establish mastery over sword again, Maglor could not - would not - refuse.

“It would be strange to beat you at swordplay,” Maglor remarked, picking up a wooden sword of his own.

“Now, are _you_ sure about that?”

The lighthearted jibe made Maglor look up, and for a moment, he almost didn’t recognise the expression on Maedhros’ face as amusement. It wasn’t even because of the gruesome scars his brother now had to bear, but the fact that it had literally been years since Maglor had last seen him happy. It was enough to make him feel like he was sharing a joke with a stranger who he would become great friends with somewhere down the line.

It was like rediscovering all the signs that marked Maedhros as a loved one to him.

So while Maglor continued to beat Maedhros at swordplay one practice at a time, Maedhros continued to relearn the 'warrior’ part of himself. A part they had feared lost after the agony of a chopped-off hand had offset sympathetic tremors in his remaining one. It hadn’t been easy to rehabilitate Maedhros’ left hand, but it had been possible. Thus they had made it work.

And Maglor - with his conscience burdened with guilt - had arrived bright and early to every practice, even when beating his older brother into the ground was the furthest thing he wanted to do every morning. His younger self would’ve rejoiced at any victory over Maedhros, scarce as they were to come by. But the Maglor of now had a very different definition of 'victory’ and it certainly wasn’t staring down the length of his sword at an exhausted looking Maedhros.

“I believe you’re overdoing this,” Maglor commented, as he walked away to put his sword back. He heard Maedhros wincing softly as he stood up but didn’t turn around to check. “We’ve been practicing every day for weeks now. You need rest to recover too.”

“This _is_ recovery,” Maedhros retorted, his voice holding none of the pain his body must be in.

Maglor scoffed, “Not if it leaves you unable to stand afterwards.”

“Káno, what’s the matter? I thought you’d enjoy evening our score.”

The teasing was new too. It’s like ever since he saw Maglor’s reaction to that first cheeky remark, Maedhros had taken to be in good humour all the time. It was as worrisome as it was uncomfortable to witness.

“This isn’t evening it unless we’re even in skills first,” Maglor answered with a shake of his head. “And we both know we’re not.”

“Don’t put yourself down, brother!” Maedhros said, smiling awkwardly as he was wont to do nowadays. Every mannerism of his was awkward and stunted to a degree now; like he was merely imitating whatever image he had of himself from before. From a time when calling him 'Maitimo’ didn’t result in averted gaze from people nearby.

Maglor sighed. There really was no arguing with Maedhros when he was like this. “Perhaps you need a change of partner. Diversify your style more. It’s not good for you to get used to mine alone.”

“No,” came the succinct reply. The coldness of his voice was surprising.

But Maglor’s response wasn’t, when it eventually was uttered in a soft, tired whisper, “Whatever you wish, Nelyo.”

And so, on they went. Maedhros losing again and again, but never once letting Maglor go easy on him. He had even made him promise and that was something none of them took lightly. But Maglor had given his word anyway, even when he secretly regretted it. Adding on to the mountain he was making out of his regrets.

Until the day came when it was Maedhros holding Maglor at sword-point.

“I win,” Maedhros stated, more bewildered than he had any right to be. He was bound to win any day now. Maglor had sensed it. “I win, Káno! I win.”

“Yes, yes. I yield,” Maglor said, gently pushing aside the sword aimed at his throat.

Maedhros grinned. And this time, it didn’t make Maglor uneasy to see it. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, Maedhros was genuinely smiling and Maglor could do nothing but return it. Maybe not as brightly though. For Maglor had a feeling that all his smiles for Maedhros were tinged with remorse now. And he could do nothing to erase it. Past was difficult like that.

“How does it feel to lose… for what? The thousandth time now?” Maedhros asked playfully, his humour spontaneous rather than forced.

It felt good to see his eyes shining with true joy again. A part of Maglor was immensely proud of putting that expression on his brother’s face again. While a different, darker part of him wanted Fingon to see this too, wanted to let him know that while he may have rescued Maedhros’ body, Maglor was the one to rescue his soul. But his mother had taught him better, so he wouldn’t pay attention to that petty urge. Besides, he had already won. He didn’t need Fingon to acknowledge it.

So with a wry quirk of his lips, he said, “I don’t think I could ever lose when you’re winning, Maitimo.”

And when Maedhros unexpectedly teared up at that, Maglor didn’t need to ask if he’d rather have Fingon wipe them. Because Maglor understood now that Maedhros trusted him to not only build him back but also to watch him break in the first place.

So Maglor did both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment to let me know your thoughts! Thanks for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr @eccentricmya


End file.
